The Imperial/Fiction/No Time To Lose
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
This short story was written by WingedAvenger.
August 29, 2004
The Imperial watched from the edge of a nearby rooftop as several armor-clad soldiers moved quickly down an alley and into a non-descript door. He had followed them since Gemini Park when a few of their comrades tried to get the drop on him in a poorly executed ambush. A lesser hero might have thought what happened was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but Imperial could sense something was up. Fifth Column soldiers were usually more careful than that. It shouldn't have been this easy to trail the few that ran away from the fight. It was like they wanted him to find them.
He stroked his white beard as he considered the ploy. Situations like these were almost always a trap. He was certainly no stranger to being caught off guard, but in most cases, the overconfident would-be villain trying to make a name for him or herself had underestimated the Imperial's might and were eventually subdued.
Next to him rested the Sceptre of Kings, the ornate medieval mace that was the source of his mystical power. For nearly seventy years, it had been magically extending his life to help aiding the fight against injustice.
The door had been left slightly propped open. This was definitely a trap.
The Imperial took up the Sceptre with both hands, sensing its raw magical power. He lurched forward over the roof's edge, falling three stories to the street below. He landed easily and unhurt.
Blackness greeted him as he pulled open the heavy door, and a wave of cold washed over him from inside. As he moved in, the door shut behind him. No matter, he figured, those Column members wouldn't be walking out of here.
"Listen to me now," he spoke with booming authority, "If you surrender peacefully, I can promise your safety and right to a fair trial by your peers. If not, I can in no way guarantee your safety." His voice reverberated in the dark, but no sound answered.
The Sceptre of Kings called out to his mind in desperation. By instinct, he leapt high into the air. The ground exploded where he stood.
Using his magically bestowed power, the Imperial ricocheted off a sidewall and propelled himself toward a group of soldiers brandishing semi automatic weapons. He landed Sceptre first, swinging to his left and knocked two of them at once. He swung to the right and hit another.
Caught by surprise and at extremely close range, the remaining soldiers scrambled. Two in the front took swings of their own, using the butts of their guns as clubs. Taking a step back, the Imperial fought off the vicious assaults. The Sceptre undulated back and forth, driving the minions back into a wide arc.
The hero charged, knocking over another soldier and crashing his weapon into the heads of two others, then turned to repel any attackers that might close behind him. "Is this the best the Column has to offer?!" he roared.
"Hurry you fools, he's almost upon us," spoke a gravely voice.
A masked Column soldier turned and stood at attention. "Sir, the device isn't ready. We haven't calibrated the quantum shift circuits to maximum efficien-" A leather-gloved hand brought swiftly against his face ended his sentence.
"Do you hear him out there, making a mockery of your comrades-in-arms? Do you want him to come in here and do the same to you? Now finish it!"
Across the room, the door burst off its hinges from the weight of an unconscious soldier flying through it. The Imperial followed just behind him with Sceptre in hand. "And what is this supposed to be?" he asked aloud.
An enormous silver machine dominated the room. At the top, an array of twisting pipes and wires gave way to a U-shaped frame big enough for a man to stand inside of. Twinkling lights flashed on various control panels along the front and sides. Directly in front of this contraption stood three more soldiers and a slender, mustachioed man who wore a dark business suit with the Column emblem upon the lapel. The Imperial remarked, "You look familiar to me."
The man pointed at the hero and shrieked, "Stop him!", to which the soldiers complied. The first pulled a barbed knife and rushed in.
The Imperial parried the stab, grabbed the soldier's wrist, and hoisted his body up. His great strength allowed him to easily toss the poor man over his head and behind him. "I remember you now," he said, "Helmar Glockner. I sent you to the Zig' last year after you tried to kill the mayor."
"Very good," came the reply, "and very soon, you will know what it's like to have your life taken from you." He fervently pushed more buttons as he spoke.
"Many have tried. None have succeeded, just as you won't."
The second soldier came in with a flying roundhouse kick. The Imperial ducked easily and punched out, connecting solidly with his chest, and sending him flying into a heap in the corner. "So what is this supposed to do? Enslave the human race? Turn everyone into frogs?"
"Foolish hero, you mock that which you don't understand. You cannot comprehend what this can do." Glockner twisted a few more dials and the contraption roared to life. He grinned wickedly and stepped into the machine's center space. "Got to go now," he sneered. "Hope you had a nice life."
The third soldier rushed in. The Imperial rushed as well, swinging the Sceptre like a baseball bat and knocking the hapless soldier away. He took a mighty leap up to the platform with arm outstretched to grab the slender man. Just as he was inches away, a column of sparkling white lights engulfed Glockner and he disappeared.
In that same instant, everything the Imperial knew, everything that he was, and everything he had yet to become, ceased to exist.
April 17, 1951
Al sat on a dirty park bench, watching the latest round of Nazi occupation troopers systematically enter each of the townhouses along the street. Sometimes they came out empty-handed, but mostly they would return with looted goods, people in handcuffs, or people in body bags. The houses containing those too well entrenched or too well armed to be moved were set on fire.
He tried to shut out the horrible screams and drew his newspaper blanket closer to his shoulders. In the years he'd spent living on the street, he'd learned that the best way to avoid the occupational Axis forces was to stay low and don't stand out. They generally didn't seem to care about destitute homeless wanderers like him, just those who had something to take and keep for themselves.
Overhead in the gray sky, the roar of warplanes rumbled as they carried more soldiers and supplies to parts unknown. A few blocks away, a parade of tanks rumbled along a city street. Behind him, an enormous red banner hung from the hollowed out frame of a skyscraper, ruffling in an unnatural breeze.
On it was a large white circle and black swastika in the center, a dominant symbol of the victorious forces of World War II.
This wasn't the Paragon City Al had known growing up, but it was what it had become in his lifetime.
"Mr. Cromwell, I assume?"
Al opened his eyes and saw a strange man with white hair staring at him. He wore a brown pinstripe suit, not a Nazi uniform like most of the people on the street. "Who wants to know?"
"I'm glad I found you," the man said as he leaned in closer, "I've been looking for you for a while now. I need your help, Alastair."
"You can call me Al," came the reply as he slowly sat up and rubbed his stubble-worn chin, "and you can buzz off. You're going to attract attention."
"Attention from those soldiers over there?" the man said as he pointed down the street.
Al didn't like where this was going. "Yeah pal, attention from those soldiers over there. So shut up and beat it already."
"How would you like to do something about those soldiers?"
Al looked at him incredulously. "You mean like go fight them? Do it yourself. See how far you get."
"I'm not talking about fighting them, Mr. Crom-" the man stopped himself. "Al. Look, I realize this will be difficult to understand, but I need you to listen to me. Have you ever felt as though all of this isn't right?" He gestured to their surroundings as he spoke. "Have you ever felt like you were out of place, like you weren't meant to be here?"
"Believe me, no one is meant to be here."
"Do you ever feel as though you could go back in time and prevent the Nazis from taking your wife away?"
Al squinted and sat fully upright. "What do you know about it, pinhead?" he growled.
"More than you think, Al. I can help you. My name is Montague." He looked down the street as the soldiers drew closer with each townhouse they ransacked. "We need to continue this somewhere safe. Come with me and I'll explain everything."
Al looked at the soldiers too. "Just go with you? Just like that? How do I know you're not one of them, huh? You gonna lead me into one of their camps?"
"I can assure you that I am not one of them. Unfortunately I have no way of proving that to you here and now. However, I'm afraid I can't leave here without you, so I'm asking for your trust."
Al caught sight of one of the Nazi soldiers staring in their direction, who turned and spoke to another while pointing at them. "Okay," he said quickly. "Let's go."
Al and Montague stood before a large warehouse composed of broken windows and rusted walls. A thick plume of black smoke drifted lazily from the roof.
Montague seemed to sense Al's thoughts. "Don't worry about that," he said, "There's no fire. I had to ensure the troops would leave this place alone. We'd all be in big trouble if they went snooping around in here."
"Doesn't look like much to me. What is this place?" Al asked.
Montague smiled as he pulled open the heavy metal door and stepped inside. "The problem and the solution. Come."
They entered and passed through a large storeroom. Through the next door stood something covered with a thick burlap tarp. "All right," Al said, unimpressed, "now what?"
Montague pulled on the tarp, kicking up clouds of dust. As it fell away, Al saw the most bizarre thing he had ever seen. A huge silvery machine covered in twisting pipes and wires, with a man-sized space in the center and control panels on the front and sides. "Do you remember when the Allied forces invaded Germany and ended the war?"
Al looked at him strangely, and then snickered. "Ah, I might if that actually happened."
"It did happen, at least originally," Montague stated. "Hitler committed suicide, and we dropped a couple of bombs on Japan. It all happened. But you wouldn't realize it, because something changed. It took me quite some time to trace history back to the exact moment when this change occurred."
Al took a cautious step back. "Okay pal, now I know you're some kind of loon. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all."
"Allow me to show you something," Montague said as he produced a frayed photograph from within his coat, "and keep in mind many men risked their lives to smuggle this out of Europe. Do you recognize this object?"
Al squinted to see a black-and-white image of Adolf Hitler posing with an ornate mace. "No," he responded, "Should I?"
"This object is what gave Hitler the power to crush the Allied forces in Europe and march his occupational troops upon the shores of the United States. It is imbued with great mystical power."
Al almost burst out laughing. "A magic weapon? What did you just fall off the turnip truck?"
"It's called the Sceptre of Kings. Before history changed, this magic weapon was in the possession of a man known as the Imperial. Records stated he found it inside the Cromwell family tomb, the tomb of your family. Al, this weapon was meant for you, but somehow it found its way into the hands of Hitler."
Al scratched his head, unsure of what to think. "How do you know all this anyway?"
Montague turned away for a moment, appearing to look into the distance. "Let's just say I possess a unique ability that allows me to perceive alterations in the timeline. This is a very important task I am asking you to undertake, one that, if successful, will-"
A loud explosion outside rocked the entire building, throwing both men off their feet. Montague turned white, "They found us! Hurry Al, get over here!"
His head still ringing, Al limply rolled to his knees and crawled into the machine's center space. He didn't know whether to believe Montague, but he did know that the Nazi soldiers in the next room were very real, and taking a chance on a lunatic was infinitely better then waiting around to be shot. "What is this thing going to do?" he asked.
"It's going to send you back in time so you can find the Sceptre," Montague said as he continued to push buttons.
"Well how am I supposed to do that?" Al asked desperately as the machine powered up. "And how am I supposed to get back?"
The room filled with soldiers. They spread out like snakes and advanced on Montague. He looked up and shouted, "Good luck!"
Al's world became a shower of sparkling white lights, and then everything went black.
March 11, 1937
Al awoke in a grassy field, his head pounding like a freight train. The night sky overhead was a beautiful rich blue spotted with shimmering stars, as though a painter had flicked a brush of white paint against a deep blue canvas. He hadn't seen the sky look like that in years.
Fighting the pain, he uneasily rolled to his feet. He was almost ready to cast off what happened as a bizarre dream, but his surroundings confirmed his memories. The landscape looked somewhat familiar, like he was still in Paragon City, only much less developed.
He ambled to the nearest street to get his bearings. The city seemed completely different to him. Smaller, quieter, and more serene.
"Alastair?" A new voice came from behind him.
He turned and found himself standing next to a car he recognized, a Packard V12 Victoria with the convertible top down. In the front was a uniformed driver, in the back sat an older man, sharply dressed in black, addressing him. "Alastair, is that you?"
"Uncle Phineas?" Al had to blink several time to ensure he was seeing straight. The last time Al had seen his uncle, he was being dragged away by troopers.
"Yes, what are you doing out here? And what are you wearing?"
Al realized he was still wearing his dirty rags. "I... um," he stammered.
Phineas sighed, "Come here, get in the car."
Al stepped in and sat down. The dust from his clothes rubbed off on the car's fine interior, which Phineas noticed, "Oh Alastair, what on earth are you doing out on the street, and in those clothes? And look at you! You look like you've aged ten years in one day. How irresponsible for someone with your breeding. Driver, take us to my office please, and quickly."
Al rubbed his face. Montague's words came back to him in a rush. "No," he said, "The cemetery. I need to go to the cemetery."
Phineas frowned. "Alastair, hush. We've got to get you cleaned up for services. It wouldn't be proper to show up for your great aunt's funeral looking as disheveled as you are."
"You don't understand," Al said, "I don't know how much time I have. I need to get to the cemetery now!"
"Pipe down, boy!" Phineas said sternly. He glanced around to see if anyone had taken notice. "This attitude of yours is most unbecoming of a Cromwell. It's bad enough I allowed your filth to sully the interior of this automobile. You should consider yourself lucky I've been inclined to help you straighten up out of this appalling mess. Now sit still and be quiet!"
Al lowered his head as the car began to roll forward. He sat quietly for a moment, then looked up, "I'm sorry, Uncle."
Phineas snorted, "Well I should hope you would be."
Al didn't hear him. He suddenly leaned forward over the driver's seat, grabbed the exterior handle, and pushed open the door. The surprised driver turned his head just enough to watch Al shove him onto the street and climb into his empty seat.
Enraged, Phineas leaned forward. "Alastair Victor Cromwell! What is Heaven's name are you-"
The sudden burst forward as Al pushed hard on the gas interrupted Phineas and threw him back into his seat. He clutched his bowler hat tightly against his head and continued to shout all the way to Moth Cemetery.
Al stumbled past decrepit tombs and ominous carved headstones. He'd left his uncle behind in the car, ignoring his rants and flustered questioning. There was simply no time to explain it all, not that his uncle would have believed him anyway. Moth Cemetery was unusually large and covered in hills and cliff sides, and surrounded on all sides by uninviting iron rod fencing. He had to go from memory to the site of his great aunt's funeral. It didn't help that tonight was an especially foggy night.
Clutching a torch he stole from a sconce near where he had slipped into the cemetery, he climbed another short rise and spotted the Cromwell family tomb ahead. It was mostly constructed underground, with the entrance made up of heavy stone doors flanked by decorative pillars inscribed with the family crest and motto. An area filled with seats had been sectioned off next to this in preparation for the funeral that was to be held in the morning, but for now the place seemed abandoned.
As he approached, he found one of the stone doors open by just a few inches. A cold wind from inside chilled him to the bone. He slid his fingers into the crack and pulled, opening the door and illuminating the inside with torchlight. He could barely make out rows of coffins on either side of the narrow room, interspersed with small alcoves and decorative archways. He crept forward slowly with his torch held out in front of him as far as he could reach, as if he expected something to rush at him out of the darkness.
A coffin lid set askew caught Al's eye. Looking around (as if that would have helped), he slid over to it and ducked against the fine wood grain. He said a silent prayer to himself, hoping that whatever the coffin contained wouldn't suddenly jump up and strangle him like an unholy terror. Then he peeked. Inside was a smaller, elaborately decorated sarcophagus.
His confidence growing, Al brought the torch closer to examine the lid. On top were two V-shaped braces, set about a foot apart. In between them, he could see a narrow area that had far less dust buildup than the rest of the lid. Something had been placed on those braces, something rod-shaped, and had only been removed recently.
Al rubbed his chin in thought, then stood up and turned. A swift right hook caught him hard on the jaw and sent him and his torch tumbling to the ground.
"Why is it you security guys always find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time?" spoke a gravely voice in the dark.
Shaking off the hit, Al rolled over to face his attacker. It was a thin, mustachioed man in dark clothes. In his left hand, he held the Sceptre of Kings.
It was Glockner, but Al had no idea who he was. His grin quickly turned to a look of shock when he saw Al's face. "You," he said with befuddlement, "No, it can't be. How did you..." His voice trailed off.
Al clutched his jaw. "Do you know me?"
Without another word, Glockner bolted for the door.
"Hey wait!" Al called out uselessly. He scooped up his torch and followed him out of the tomb. He tried to keep up as fast as his legs could take him, but Glockner seemed to be far more agile as he darted around tombstones and mausoleums. In the darkness, Al actually lost sight of him more than once, only to luckily spot him again as he tried running in another direction. It seemed to him this man wasn't terribly familiar with the layout of the grounds. Hopefully, he could use that to his advantage.
Al followed Glockner around another corner and found him scaling a steep hill that led to a higher plateau of the graveyard. Holding up his torch, he paused to aim for a brief second, then flung it as hard as he could up the hill. It connected solidly on Glockner's back, the pitch end smacking him in the back of the head. The man let out a yelp, then fell to the side, out of sight behind a ridge. As Al scrambled up the hill in pursuit, he found the ridge leveled out on top of a wide support wall built to hold up the earth of the hill from falling into the street about twenty feet below.
Al had set one foot on the wall when Glockner appeared out of nowhere and struck him in the chest with the Sceptre of Kings. He collapsed in the heap, groaning. He could feel something extraordinary about the hit he just took, as though a supernatural power had just caved in his chest cavity by dropping an entire building on it. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.
Seething rage emanated from Glockner's face. "I don't know how," he stated as he began to slowly circle Al, "but somehow, you found me here. It seems escaping through time and erasing you from history isn't even enough to stop you!"
Al rolled over and started to rise on his hands and knees, but the man brought the Sceptre down on him like a club. He fell flat, reeling again from that intense force.
"I was planning on presenting this as a gift to the Fuhrer," Glockner continued, "But I think I've just changed my mind."
He cudgeled Al with the Sceptre again, who could only spasm with pain in response. "Instead, I think I'll just keep it for myself. This relic may have made you one of history's greatest heroes, but your time has run out. With this Sceptre, I will become the Imperial, and I will enslave the world to do my bidding!" His eyes widened with maniac glee as he spoke.
Al propped himself up on his left elbow and cast a leery, pain-ridden glance up at Glockner. "The Imperial?" he coughed out. "What kind of ridiculous name is that?"
Glockner gnashed his teeth and lifted the Sceptre high above his head. "Good bye, once and for all!" he shouted.
The Sceptre came down.
On instinct, Al's right hand shot up, catching it in mid-strike.
In that split-second, a wave of clarity washed over Al's perceptions. With his grasp firmly clutching the Sceptre of Kings, he could feel the mystical life force the object possessed through his entire body. He could see the past, present, and future all at once, as if someone had opened a door in his mind he never knew existed. He could feel a presence beyond his normal self.
A presence that recognized him.
A shockwave of magic energy exploded from the Sceptre of Kings. Glockner screamed and fell back, losing his grip on the weapon. Al's grip, however, remained intact, as though he had not been affected at all. He looked at Glockner with alarm, as if he couldn't believe what just happened either.
As Al rolled to his knees, Glockner shot up and glowered. "Give that to me!" he hissed as he produced a knife from a hidden pocket. The crazed man rushed forward, swinging his blade wildly.
Al fell to the side, allowing Glockner's momentum carry him past. His footing slipped on the edge of the wall and he tumbled over into the dark night air, down to the rod-iron fence twenty feet below.
Pulling open the tomb door, Al stumbled inside. He could still feel the pain of the assault he had just endured, but somehow, holding the Sceptre of Kings made dealing with it much easier. He scurried to the open coffin and dropped to his knees in front of it.
He turned the Sceptre over and over in his hands, feeling its intricate carvings with his fingertips. He had never held something that men would kill for before. Could it really do everything Glockner believed it could? Could it really turn men into heroes or enslave the world? Did the Sceptre actually protect him from harm? He didn't know. All he knew is what he felt back on the wall, a presence that was not his own but felt as natural to him as his own personality. Something that knew him. Something that protected him, even though he could also feel it somehow wasn't meant for him.
With a sigh, he gingerly placed the Sceptre back onto its resting place on the sarcophagus. As he did, the pain of his wounds began to return, as though the energy that kept it at bay had departed. He ignored this however, and just stared at the weapon in quiet stillness. It wasn't meant for him, but he would watch over it, just as it had watched over him.
Daylight invaded the dark through the open door of the tomb, snapping Al from his all night reverie. He heard the faint sound of footsteps drawing closer. Knowing he couldn't make it to the door in time, he retreated further into the tomb and hid inside a small alcove. He peered back to see the figure of a man appear. It was a young man in his twenties, finely dressed in black funeral attire. His face seemed so familiar.
The man moved slowly inside, and appeared to notice the open tomb with the Sceptre inside. He bent down to retrieve it, and his face filled with wonder as he held the weapon aloft for the first time. He stared at it with disbelief, turning it over and over in his hands.
Al now knew who he was looking at. Not from the face or the mannerisms, but just from the feeling of joy he felt in his heart as he watched his younger self with the Sceptre of Kings. His face didn't have the grizzled creases of a man exposed to a lifetime of war. Instead, he possessed the look of innocence and someone who had an incredible future ahead of him. Al knew this was the young man who would become someone different from what he was. This was the young man who would become the hero he knew he could not be.
For the first time in a long time, Al smiled.
Across the room, Alastair Cromwell gingerly held the Sceptre of Kings. It seemed like such an incredible artifact to have been simply abandoned in a musty tomb. He could sense something deep within it though, something amazing.
As he stood there, he suddenly felt as though he was being watched from further inside the tomb. He quickly looked toward a small alcove, but saw nothing. He glanced around the dimly lit room, but found no one. He was totally alone.
Returning his attention to the Sceptre, Alastair turned and walked out of the tomb toward the light of the dawning day outside.
